Bas was stretched out near the bedroom when Krystelle rushed back carrying his gun. ‘Was there something?’
‘We haven’t much time,’ said Grant. ‘But if you want to go fast Krystelle’s gun will work faster than the fire. Just say the word.’
Mikel smiled. ‘Thanks, Grant, but really there’s nothing I’d dislike more.’ He bowed his head. ‘I about to die salute you. Vaya con dios.’
Grant nodded abruptly. ‘As you wish.’ He adjusted Sureen’s position and ran for the door. Bas and Krystelle had disappeared, and in spite of everything he couldn’t help smiling. She was always one jump ahead of him and he was glad that she had opted to try for a way out with Bas. The shrinks could work wonders even with cases which seemed beyond hope, and given luck Bas might live to see a better future. Even without ‘his’ woman.
The corridor was burning at both ends and he ran into the first room on the other side. A window was open and it faced the car park, but a quivering row of tiny flames was eating into the parquetry midway across and he was racing for the opening when a ring of flame suddenly burst around the bed, and drapes became a furnace. It was a twenty-foot drop, minimal, to an area laid with white pebbles. A soft fall was out of the question and he ripped off his pants, made a hitch with one leg under Sureen’s arms, then pulled out a lightweight coat from the usual built-in wardrobe, tore it almost completely in two and tied one coat-tail to the remaining trouser leg.
Room temperature was hitting a hundred, he suspected, when a flame singed his feet. He made a final trip to the window, braced himself as he lowered Sureen towards the gravel and felt the heat frizzle hair upon his legs. Smoke was tickling his nostrils when he figured that she was no more than a metre and a half from the ground. He leaned forward even further to give her another five or six inches and then watched her fall. She dropped lightly and then seemed to fold up, but her head flopped forward against her chest as she crumpled, and at least, thought Grant, it wasn’t likely that she could have been badly damaged.
It was impossible to reach the door without getting, at best, generalised second-degree burns, so he rolled on to the window-ledge and clutched the sill with his fingers. He fell with the practised skill of a professional paratrooper, rolling into a ball on impact. The house was an inferno, but he lay still for a full minute, checking that he was fit to cope before again lifting Sureen across his shoulders and trotting towards the garage, his bare feel aching as gravel bored into skin.
Krystelle and he ticked on the same wavelength. She knew that he had concentrated on Sureen, the one witness who could support every angle of the story which mattered, and he also believed that if she had managed to make the outside of the house she would already be well on the way to the nearest hospital with Bas somehow still under control.
The roads were busy and the run slow after the city boundary. The first fire-brigade passed him when he was within a kilometre of the hospital and he rushed to the casualty entrance, bursting in to lay Sureen, still unconscious, on a trolley and give an astonished nurse a piece of paper on which he had scribbled his name with the Lancaster Hotel as his address.
Four fire-brigades were pumping water over the smoking shell of Mikel’s house when he swept back up the drive. A figure flashed from the bushes as he slowed down for the last bend and Krystelle stopped beside his window. ‘Get Bas inside, David,’ she drawled. ‘Krystelle’s been busy. Mission under control as soon as we get him to hospital. I checked on knots when I was waiting for you. But let’s get out of here.’
Grant lifted Bas into the convertible coupé and navigated Krystelle to hospital but left as swiftly as he had with Sureen, pausing only to chuck a young nurse under the chin. ‘Smile, chaquita,’ he said. ‘You’ll get the news tomorrow. It isn’t a revolution. Relax.’
‘This is very irregular,’ she said. ‘And the doctors are angry.’
‘Bless you all,’ said Grant. ‘And keep tomorrow night free for dinner. You’ll get the story then: if you’re lucky.’
Krystelle insisted on returning to the Lancaster, and a taxi leaving the hospital accepted her, even although the driver said that she reminded him of a hippie during the Rio carnival.
Police cars had arrived when Grant drew up a hundred metres or so from the first fire-brigade. A stout woman was sobbing on the grass beside two policemen and Grant paused surprised. The one person everyone had forgotten was Cyp’s legal wife. She was still wearing her rings and looked grotesque in a charred housecoat, her hair caked with carbon and soot, and her face crimson with burns. He dropped into his most professional manner and spoke direct to the officers. ‘I have taken two survivors direct to hospital and the nurse in charge has my card. My address is the Lancaster Hotel but I was staying here for two nights as a house guest of Señor Mikel Brandt, whose name, doubtless, you know. I was able to save two people, a servant and Madame President Sureen Socasani who is now critically ill, but I shall report to a responsible official at the Casa Rosada tomorrow at noon. Meanwhile advise this lady that her husband is dead and that I offer sympathy.’ He bowed politely, kissed Señora Moreiro’s hand and returned to his car.
The police could recognise authority when they saw it and saluted as he pointed back to B.A.
Krystelle had name-dropped at the Lancaster and been given a room on the same floor as Grant. She was fastening her qaftan when he seized her round the waist and kissed her on each cheek. ‘What happened?’ he said.
She giggled mischievously. ‘I got Bas away while the going was good, did some first aid in the bushes and waited till you returned to circulation.’
‘And what else when you were not in the bushes?’
‘Nothing that you’d want to know about.’ She kissed him systematically and then stepped back. ‘You got no eyebrows. Your hair look like some chick who has used too much chemical in her perm. And do you know you’re still walking round with a car rug round your waist and no shoes. David man, I guess you’re shocked.’
He smiled cynically. ‘Shocked is the word. You stopped to collect that million? Where is it?’
Krystelle rubbed her chin and went into a pose of deep thought. ‘Million. Cheeze! Or did you mean the hardware? Petra did some talking about jewels.’
‘And about safe combination XOB 13957. Or had you forgotten?’
‘David,’ Krystelle rubbed her cheeks against his bristly chin and almost purred with sheer animal pleasure, ‘what would you do with a million in hardware?’ She paused. ‘Now there was a tapestry in a dining room. It looked real good to me, and since I was passing through I took a minute off to wrap it up and save it for posterity.’
‘Where is it?’ Grant understood very well that she would never tell him. Because she knew as well as he did that in his job looting and bribery were strictly taboo.
‘For the lawdsake, man, can’t you think of anything but things? How about people? I’m a people. Or we’re people. And people need people. How about a kip?’
‘So the Gobelin is in the Plaza?’
‘You call it a Gobelin?’ Krystelle was amused. ‘My goodness, David. But you’re real clever.’ She paused and drew him even more close. ‘That hardware, David! Promises are promises. And the Indians have had a bad time. If I had taken the stuff I figure I would want to let money filter back to the Indians. Maybe one day I’ll have a dream and think that I’ve done it. Okay?’
Grant felt a glow of terrific satisfaction. ‘Okay. And will you have dreams about the tapestry?’
‘Yessir.’ She rippled her fingers across his singed eyebrows. ‘I got an idea I’ll dream that some guy back home in Paris has bought it for about a coupla million francs on the black market. Funny things dreams,’ she added. ‘A girl like me gets nervous about her future and sometimes dreams that she’s stacking away security for her old age. Is that natural?’
Grant nodded. ‘Sure. Natural. Like this.’ He lay quietly while she stepped out of her qaftan and stood like a tanned goddess near the bed. ‘I like being natural,’ sh
e said, and wriggled between the sheets. ‘With you,’ she added as she paused to make herself comfortable astride his taut firm body. ‘But next time you must travel with more weapons or … or … I’ll divorce you.’
Grant squirmed as she reached below the linen. ‘I always travel with one weapon which matters,’ he said, and smiled as she thrust down towards him and slumped forwards, her arms reaching around his neck. ‘Savvy?’ he said.
‘I got it,’ she said as she kissed him. ‘I got it.’
11
‘I’m just going to work up a tan’
Grant detested his department’s new H.Q. near the NATO complex at Casteaux.
Belgium had never been his favourite country, and like his chief, Admiral John Silas Cooper, he would have preferred to make his report surrounded by the familiar faces of Maison Candide in Rue Vaugirade and with the impatient hum of Paris buzzing below his windows.
The Admiral was now housed in a functional office which looked, according to his secretary, Miss Sidders, like a cross between an empty supermarket and a lady’s retiring room in a Hilton Hotel. She was knitting with machine-like precision, and the Admiral filling the room with smoke from his favourite briar when Grant wound up a long explanation, background to his written memorandum.
‘It was sheer chance,’ he ended, ‘that Cyp’s wife wanted sandwiches and went to make them herself when she got no reply on the house-phone. And it was her good luck that she decided to have a breath of fresh air at the same time and use the outside stairway from her suite to the gardens. She didn’t notice, at first, that the house was in darkness, and when she did she thought that there had been some sort of power failure which didn’t affect her own rooms. So it was reasonable enough for her to make for the front door, though it’s a miracle that she wasn’t killed or badly burned when she pressed the light switch. She was either thrown back by blast when the petrol went up or else she has faster reflexes than one would have expected in a woman of her weight. Anyhow,’ he added, ‘she was lucky. And Helena Mauriac was equally lucky that her car broke down on the way back from town. She didn’t arrive until it was all over, but did a good job of work in helping the widow.’
‘While your friend did a good job of work in helping herself.’ Miss Sidders was staring disapprovingly towards the smoke which concealed her chief, a sure sign that he wished to keep out of things.
Grant looked puzzled. ‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘Fire is peculiar,’ said Miss Sidders, ‘and the dining room wasn’t too badly damaged. But Señora Moreiro reported that a valuable Gobelin tapestry has disappeared, and after investigations by the insurance companies it seems certain that no one went into the house after the fire started, so clearly someone took it out of the house. Which leaves only Miss de Tourvel and yourself.’
‘So?’
‘Where is it?’
Grant had come almost to love Miss Sidders and she had occasionally allowed even her own mask to slip enough to convince him that she gave him quality ratings on most counts. But she was sensitive about Krystelle and disapproved what she called his womanising. ‘Krystelle carried Bas right through the flames and had more to do than think about tapestries,’ said Grant quietly. ‘But another thing. I owe her my life, because if she hadn’t been there it’s long odds I would have been killed. Whereas if my chiefs had not given me the sort of equipment I’ve been trained to use and come to rely on I could probably have prevented anyone from being killed at all. As I’ve taken care to emphasise in my written report.’
The Admiral coughed heavily and grunted out a question. ‘Say anything else?’
‘Yes.’ Grant smiled towards the smoke and let the old man have it straight. ‘I’ve also noted how failure to brief an agent fully can not only endanger his life but breed mistrust between himself and his superiors. Because, sir, you know and I know that Brazil’s Indian Protection Agency have most facts on file about people who murder Indians. And granted that some of the Agency officials are themselves corrupt, the Villas Boas outfit is clean and must also have a fair idea of most people involved in killings over the last thirty years or more. So the way I look at it is this. The people who breathe down your neck, sir, got a tip-off that Cyp Moreiro had a bad record vis-à-vis Indians and had not only killed for kicks but promoted genocide to get land during his early days. Cyp knew damn well how things tick and felt happier living abroad where the Death Squad couldn’t get him. But when it looked as though he would land a plum political job it became time for authority to act. So I was picked as hatchet man because I knew Petra, and I was told only enough to make me mildly interested. But everyone knew that if I carried anything significant in the way of weapons I might finish with a load of political dirt and a live Cyp Moreiro. Which was the last thing the high-ups wanted! So they hamstrung me and sent me out with nothing but my wits and a gun to help me out of trouble, though knowing damn well that I would almost certainly strike oil, become involved, and be forced to fight dirty.
‘But even then things went wrong from my own point of view only because Bas threw a spanner into the works, because without that everyone would still have been alive and kicking … thanks to Krystelle. And now as the department sees it nothing could be better. You buried several undesirable stiffs: two political kooks almost ready to enter the international political scene: one crazy woman whose name must have been on the wanted list for Indian atrocities: three straight killers and one half-wit near-gangster.
‘But I’ve said in my report that I resent being conned into this sort of mission and entering an assignment without being in full possession of all facts. Which is why I am offering my resignation.’
The Admiral coughed violently and Miss Sidders dropped a stitch. ‘Offered or handed in?’ she said.
‘Offered. Not tendered.’ Grant was beginning to enjoy himself and knew that the Admiral would raise hell with the committee which sat in white shirts and city suits wearing out their backsides at desk jobs while other people carried the can. The resignation idea might even be infectious and the Admiral himself could use it as a lever against outside interference from faceless politicals who thought they were God but hadn’t cut their teeth on field work.
‘Dr. Grant,’ said Miss Sidders violently, while she picked up her stitch and jabbed her needle into a tangle of wool, ‘all things considered you handled matters very well, and of course your resignation won’t be accepted. And you won’t forget that until all these recent NATO upheavals we always did give you total briefing. You can rely upon Admiral Cooper and myself to deal with your complaints, which we accept are justified, through the proper channels.’
The Admiral emerged at last from his cloud of smoke. ‘Got a message for you, David. President Socosani has sent you a gong. Against all rules, of course, for you to accept it, but under the circumstances we are making an exception. You’ll get it at his embassy in Paris, where, thank God, we are having a party tomorrow night to celebrate.’
Grant knew that they had all enjoyed the incident and that everyone understood exactly what everyone else was thinking. As ‘old boys’ they all detested the new NATO set-up and any excuse to return to Paris even for a day or two was headline news. ‘I have a few days’ leave,’ he said tentatively. ‘Will it be okay if I date it as starting from the end of the Paris break, which, I suppose, is technically departmental business?’
Miss Sidders was blowing her nose. ‘Anything planned?’
‘Possibly a few days in Tunisia. Nothing special. Why?’
The old lady looked at him deadpan. ‘I thought you might have been helping Miss de Tourvel to open up a market in jewels. Insurance has also reported that trinkets covered for two million American dollars disappeared during that fire, and I thought I’d let you know.’
Grant shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t understand. I’m just going to work up a tan.’
Miss Sidders risked one of her few jokes. ‘If you forgive my saying so, Doctor, you deserve to be tanned. But have a goo
d time. And we all leave for Paris in the same car tomorrow at zero nine hours.’
‘Including Krystelle?’
The old lady nodded agreeably. ‘Why not? She was your assistant during your last mission. And frankly,’ she added, ‘neither the Admiral nor myself have ever driven to Paris in the company of a young lady who must now be worth at least a million sterling in her own right. We thought you wouldn’t mind. And it would be an experience for us.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Grant. ‘Don’t mind at all. We’ll maybe even ask her to pay the luncheon cheque en route. But one thing interests me slightly. This jewel or trinket thing the insurance have been going on about? Did they give you a list?’
Miss Sidders nodded. ‘In detail, but the most valuable items apart from black pearls and a few diamonds is a collection of extremely valuable jade. Jade so unusual that it is almost unique.’
Grant’s mind darted back over the weekend. Miss Sidders’ words had caught his imagination. ‘Jade isn’t always green,’ he said at last and his voice became very soft. ‘Sometimes jade is crimson. Very crimson. And if Petra or Cyp owned jade, then it was bought with death. A lot of death.’
The Admiral puffed vigorously at his pipe. ‘Okay, David. Till tomorrow. On your way.’
But Miss Sidders had the last word. ‘If I were you I’d tell Miss Krystelle that crimson jade isn’t a good colour,’ she said. ‘Associations stick. If she did happen to have any I think I’d get rid of it.’
Krystelle was waiting in Grant’s Maserati outside. She was wearing a new ocelet coat and white suède boots. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘you treat the Admiral and Miss Sidders to luncheon. It begins to look as though you’ve now been accepted.’
Krystelle smiled broadly, wriggled into the driving seat and hitched her skirt up to mid-thigh. ‘I’m a one-man woman, David, and David Grant’s my only man. But I’ll be nice to the Admiral just for your sake.’
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